The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sylvia lifted her head. Yes, there it was again, a rapping coming from the front of the shop.

She set her pencil down on the notebook she’d been staring at for the past ten minutes and pushed away from her mother’s desk. Then she hurried to the front door. Careful, she peeled back a bit of the blackout to peer outside. On the other side of the glass, William held up a brown paper bag.

Quickly, she let him in.

“You have perfect timing,” she said as she wrestled the blackout back in place.

“Why is that?” he asked, removing his hat.

“I was just about to force myself to start something I’ve been putting off for days.”

“And now that I’m here you can put it off a little longer?” he asked.

She grinned. “You see? The perfect excuse.”

“In that case, you might be even happier to see me.” He unrolled the scrunched-up to top of the bag to reveal a pair of parchment-wrapped sandwiches. “I thought that you might be hungry, so I brought some dinner by.”

She thought about the dish cooked by Mrs. Atkinson that was no doubt sitting in the oven at home, waiting to be heated up and eaten alone at the flat’s dining room table.

“Sandwiches sound like just the thing,” she said. “Let me give you some coupons for whatever’s in them.”

He shook his head. “There’s no need. I once did a little work for Mrs. Reynolds’s son when he had a problem with the lease on the building for his hardware shop a few roads down. She doesn’t mind adding a little extra to an order from time to time.”

She put her hand to her chest in mock horror. “Mr. Gray, are you admitting that you are dealing on the black market? And you, a solicitor.”

He shot her a smile. “I thought that the girl who used to pinch oranges from the stand outside of Mrs. Reynolds’s shop wouldn’t mind.”

“That is just one of the many grievances Mrs. Reynolds has against me,” she said.

“I remember you always used to smell like orange oil afterward,” he said.

She blushed. When she’d been younger and just learning how to primp, she used to take the peel of the stolen oranges and rub it behind her ears because she couldn’t afford scent. To think that he would have remembered a little thing like that…

“Will you come back?” she asked. “I can’t promise much in the way of dining facilities, but I can make us some tea.”

“Now that is a fair trade for sandwiches,” he said.

She led him to the office and cleared a bit of space for him before going to make tea. When she returned, she found him looking around, the unwrapped sandwiches sitting on their paper next to her notebook.

“Here you are,” she said, handing him a cup.

“Thank you,” he said. “It must have been quite the job tidying this place.”

“It was more than a tidy,” she said. “My mother’s record-keeping system baffles me. It took me until the first week in March to sort through the paperwork, let alone reconcile the account books.”

He winced. “Was it really that bad?”

“I found receipts for fabric purchased in 1932 in the same box as a bag of buttons and bits of ribbon, and that chair you’re sitting on was held up by an order book from 1929,” she said.

“How is the flat?” he asked.

She stilled. “I don’t know.”

“Sylvia, you have been up to the flat, haven’t you?”

She cleared her throat. “No. Not yet. The shop has been keeping me so busy, I’ve hardly been able to give it a thought.”

Working at the shop had been hurdle enough. She wasn’t yet ready to climb the steep stairs to the upper floor and immerse herself completely in the life she’d once had.

“Do you know, I tried to help Izzie sort through all of this when you both first inherited,” he said.

“And you didn’t run away screaming?” she asked with a laugh. “You are a wonder, William.”

“I nearly did.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” she said.

He sat back, seeming to study her.

“You’re making me nervous, William. What is it?” she asked, half-joking.

“How do you think the shop was doing before your mother’s death?” he asked. He must have seen her surprise about such a direct question because he quickly added, “I would ask your sister, but I fear Izzie might have been too close to assess it fairly.”

“Honestly,” she started slowly, “I think it has been struggling for some time—and not the way Izzie thinks. From what I can tell from the paperwork I’ve found, rationing did have an impact, but things were beginning to slow well before that.”

“How long?” he asked.

“Since before the war. In some ways, it appears my mother made some good decisions. She had no debt to speak of and she did have some money saved, but none of the records I’ve found show any investment either. There have been no efforts at advertising or expanding Mrs. Shelton’s customer base. There has been no expansion into children’s clothing, soft furnishings, anything. It’s almost as though my mother tried to preserve the shop in aspic.”

“Have you told Izzie?” asked William, biting into his sandwich.

“I doubt very much she would listen to me.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Oh, William. I’ve made such a hash of things,” she said.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I found some sketches that Izzie made. They’re beautiful—a real cut above what Mum ever designed even in her heyday. Miss Reid and I thought that we use could use them as guidance to try to bring the shop’s offering in line with the new Board of Trade restrictions, but I was so excited I didn’t think to ask Izzie’s permission. She’d drawn them, so I assumed she wanted to see them worn by customers.

“When she came back on leave and saw what we were doing, she was furious.” She shook her head. “She doesn’t trust me.”

“Write to her. Explain why you did it,” said William.

“I have. I’ve written so many letters, and this was all she sent back,” she said, reaching into the desk to pull out Izzie’s most letter that amounted to one devastating line: Do not pretend that you know the first thing about what Mum was like.

She watched as William read it and let out a long breath. “She’s angry.”

“That’s why I tried to apologize.”

“No, Sylvia. Your sister is angry. About everything.”

“What does Izzie have to be angry with me about? She’s hardly spoken to me since I married Hugo,” she said.

William’s expression hardly changed, yet she couldn’t miss the pity in his gaze.

“Well,” he finally said, “that is something to think about, isn’t it?”

“We lost touch. It happens sometimes in families,” she said, but even as she said it she had to fight not to squirm. As the elder of the two sisters, Sylvia’s job had been to look out for Izzie, and she’d enjoyed having her little sister running around after her, bright-eyed and curious. But when their mother began to take Izzie under her wing and train her, Sylvia had felt pushed out. Lonely.

But that was not Izzie’s fault. That argument had been between Sylvia and her mother.

“Give her time. Your sister is still grieving your mother,” he said.

“And the fact that our mother bequeathed the shop to both of us?” she asked with an arched brow.

“And that,” said William.

She sighed. “I will never understand why she did that.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Shelton thought you would need it one day,” he said. “Like she wrote in her will.”

I hope that, as it has for me, the shop will take care of them when they need it most.

Sylvia shook her head. Why would she need the shop to take care of her? If anything, the shop needed her and her time and patience sorting it out.

“Give Izzie time,” William repeated, “and keep writing to her. She’ll eventually listen to reason.”

She dipped her head, not knowing what to say to that. This giving and taking advice felt so intimate—something reserved for a husband—but she had known William since she was a child. There was no calmer, more steadfast man than him.

“May I ask you something?” she finally asked.

“Anything,” he said.

“That’s very unlike a solicitor, agreeing to answer a question without knowing what it is.”

“I left the office an hour ago, and I’m determined not to be a solicitor again until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You are free to ask whatever you like,” he said.

“What is it like not going off to fight?”

“Ah, that question.”

“I don’t mean any offense,” she hurriedly added.

His lips tipped up a fraction of an inch. “I know you don’t, Sylvia, but not everyone is so generous if I don’t take the time to explain about being deaf in my left ear.”

Her heart broke a little to hear that, because she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone thinking less of the gentle, considerate man she’d grown up with.

“It isn’t easy,” he admitted. “I know that sounds ridiculous given that I’m here, relatively safe in my solicitor’s office while tens of thousands of men are off fighting.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said.

He gave her a smile. “Thank you. Being told that a chance accident when you were a child means you aren’t even fit to drive an ambulance for the medical corps is humbling and humiliating in equal turns.”

She shuddered, remembering too well the day it had happened. It was about two years after the Sheltons had moved to Glengall Road. Her mother believed Sylvia, at thirteen, was old enough to sweep the shop floor and do other odd jobs. However, nine-year-old Izzie was still allowed to run wild with the other neighborhood children so long as she was back for supper when the church bells rang six. That was why, when Izzie had raced into the shop, crying that William was hurt, Sylvia had followed Mum and Miss Reid out of the shop like a shot. William was lying on the ground, clutching the side of his head as blood trickled down from his ear.

Apparently William and the other children had found some sticks from a nearby park and were pretending to be buccaneers. One of the children slipped while thrusting, and a stick had gone straight into William’s left ear, puncturing the eardrum.

“Your hearing never came back then?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I haven’t heard a thing in it since. What is your husband doing in the war?”

She shifted in her seat, suddenly acutely aware that this was the longest she’d been alone with a man who wasn’t Hugo in years. Except that was ridiculous. William would never do anything untoward. For goodness’ sake, her mother had trusted him to handle her affairs. If Izzie had any sense and the inclination to marry, she would open her eyes and realize that a good man was waiting right here in front of her.

Only, when Sylvia looked at William, she found she couldn’t imagine him as Izzie’s husband.

Sylvia cleared her throat and said, “Hugo is a surgeon lieutenant-commander in the Royal Navy Medical Service.”

“You must be very proud,” he said.

“Yes.” The word stuck in her throat, coming out more croak than confirmation. “He is away a great deal.”

“That must be difficult.”

Not as difficult as she had once found it.

She cleared her throat and then gestured to the notebook she’d set aside. “I should probably finish this.”

William sat up a little straighter. “Of course. I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

“You didn’t!” she rushed to say. “That is, I appreciate you sharing your contraband sandwiches and a little bit of company as well.”

“Well, I’ll let you finish your supper,” he said as he began to fold the parchment into precise lines until all that was left was a neat rectangle, not a crumb to be seen.

She smiled as she showed him to the shop door. Of course William wouldn’t leave a crumb behind. He would never be so inconsiderate as that.

Several hours later, Sylvia let her handbag slip off her wrist and onto the flat’s entryway table, only just catching it as it teetered, threatening to fall onto the polished hardwood floor. Then she lifted her hands to her hat to unpin it and cast it aside. She didn’t even bother to check her appearance in the mirror. All she wanted was to pour herself a couple fingers of whiskey, sink into bed, and sleep for twelve hours.

She toed off her shoes, leaving them in the entryway. She would pick them up before Mrs. Atkinson arrived the following morning, but at that moment she couldn’t be bothered. Trying to rub the tension out of the back of her neck, she made for the sitting room and its generously stocked bar cart. It had been weeks since she’d entertained anyone at home, but keeping the bottles topped up and waiting seemed like the civilized thing to do even if the recent alcohol shortages meant that it was harder than ever to find certain spirits in London shops.

She pushed open the ajar sitting room door and stopped short when she saw a pair of highly polished black shoes poking out from behind one of wingback chairs in front of the coal fire. The edge of a newspaper dropped into view and she heard the sound of paper crackling and fabric rustling as Hugo twisted to peer around the chair’s wing.

“You’re home late,” he said before twisting back around again.

Sylvia closed her eyes, praying that when she opened them he would be gone—a figment of her imagination.

She was not so lucky.

Doing her best to pull on the composure she’d shed at the front door, she padded across the floor to the bar cart and poured herself a whiskey. Not two fingers. Four.

Drink clutched to her chest as though it were a talisman, she turned on her stockinged feet.

“You didn’t write to tell me that you were due leave,” she said.

He glanced up at her, closed his paper, and then folded it once again. Finally, he said, “I’m not on leave.”

“Another meeting in London then,” she said, remembering his unannounced appearance in December.

“The work I did with the admiralty and the navy’s medical service was a success. I’ve been reassigned to London to continue it. I can’t say much else, of course. You understand.”

Sylvia stared at her husband. He was coming home.

Many years ago, when they’d still been in the first flush of their marriage, she might have thought it would be romantic for him to surprise her like this, but this had no romance about it. There was no kiss, no hug, no hello even. Just a simple statement of fact laced with disapproval—“You’re home late”—followed by the bombshell news that he had been reassigned.

She took a long drink of her whiskey and then asked, “Does that mean you will be moving back home?”

“Into my own home? Yes, I should think so,” he said.

She nodded shortly.

“I can’t imagine that will be a problem for you, will it?” he asked.

“No,” she said automatically. “Why should it be?”

“You’re back so late. I had thought that perhaps it might inconvenience you to have your husband home.”

She burst out laughing at the suspicion on his voice. “Oh, Hugo. You don’t have to worry about that. Unlike some, I actually believe in the vows that we exchanged when we were married.”

The jab and every unspoken confession it represented hung in the air between them, and for a moment she thought he might acknowledge the letters in his desk drawer. That would be a start, her tired brain reasoned. Just the simple admission that he had strayed from their marriage.

He did not, however, say a thing.

“If you must know,” she continued, “I’m very busy at the moment. You might find that I am often home late.”

“Your charity work keeps you out past the blackout?” he asked.

She tilted her head to one side to study him. “Frequently. Committee work is more involved than you might think.”

“I suppose Rupert can sympathize, can he?” he asked.

“I’m certain he can. Claire is also very busy,” she lied easily before taking another drink. In truth, she had no idea how her friend managed her social diary when her husband was home from leave. It had been weeks since the pair of them had seen each other outside of a War Widows’ Fund meeting.

Hugo held her gaze for a moment longer but then said, “I don’t anticipate being at the flat much myself. There is too much to do, and I might find it easier to stay at my club some nights. It’s closer to the Admiralty.”

Despite all of the resentment and anger she’d stored up over the letters, her heart sank. He wasn’t even back one evening, and he was already trying to find ways to wriggle out of being at home. To find ways to spend time without her and with his mistress.

All of a sudden, the strain of holding herself together so tightly these past months for the sake of the shop, her sister, her committee, her marriage, all of it was too much. Exhaustion swept over her.

“I’m off to bed,” she announced. “Good night, Hugo.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked out, but in that moment she couldn’t find it in herself to care.